


liquid courage or something like it

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Actor RPF, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everyone gets spectacularly drunk and Richard ends up in Graham's hotel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	liquid courage or something like it

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this kinkmeme prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _After the premiere, everybody gets kinda wasted, Richard starts flirting with Graham, they go back to the hotel, one thing leads to another and Richard finds himself being quite brutally and sloppily fucked into the mattress._
> 
>  
> 
> _Bonus: When he wakes up, Richard's memory is kind of hazy, but when he feels an arm wrapped around his waist, and a pain in his ass, things come back to him quite clearly._

It starts out innocently enough: some well-deserved champagne at the after party and a glass or three of red wine when the post-premiere celebrations have been moved to somebody’s living room. There’s dim lighting and laughter and too-loud music, and Richard’s at that point where he isn’t really drunk but his limbs feel sort of heavy and warm and everything’s _good._

Then he gets caught up in the whirlwind that are Aidan and Dean, who wheedle and cajole and outright beg until he gives in and swaps his wine for shots of something stronger and cheaper. It burns his throat and makes him curse, and James joins them by the coffee table solely so he can make fun of Richard.

“You’re such a sissy, Armitage,” he says mournfully, like Richard’s just done something monumentally disappointing.

“Have you tried this stuff?” he asks, grimacing at the sharp taste that insists on lingering in his mouth. “It bloody well tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

James steals Dean’s recently re-filled glass and throws it back. He appears to consider for a moment, then simply shrugs with an unimpressed expression.

“Well,” Richard says, floundering a little, “you’re Irish!”

“Oi!” Aidan complains, then deflates a little at a pointed look from Dean. “I guess you might have a point there.”

Richard tries to make himself scarce after that, but James insists the first shot is always the worst and he figures just one more won’t hurt. It is, as far as life choices go, an incredibly stupid one, but by the time he has a few more empty glasses in front of him Richard is forced to admit that it _does_ get better. The burning, medicinal taste has even dulled down to something almost pleasant, though Richard suspects that has more to do with how numb his tongue’s gone than anything else.

When Aidan produces a saltshaker from somewhere and proceeds to find remarkably creative ways to use it, Richard makes a hasty retreat and seeks refuge in the makeshift bar that’s been made of the kitchen.

“Finally managed to escape the youngsters, then?” Graham asks from where he’s pouring himself some whiskey.

“Just barely,” Richard says, and goes to lean against the sink across from Graham because everything’s a little bit wobbly just now. “Are you hiding as well?”

Graham shrugs and says nothing, and the light in the kitchen is uncomfortably bright after the deliberate dimness of the rest of the house. Music and abysmal singing reaches them, muffled and distorted, and the room smells like the bitten lemon slices left on the counter and the tequila spilled on the floor.

“This throws me back decades,” Richard admits, nostalgia curling the corners of his mouth upward.

“Ending up sloshed at a party?” Graham asks, amused.

“Ending up sloshed _in the kitchen_ at a party,” Richard corrects, and it makes Graham laugh.

“Sounds familiar,” he says, and Richard watches the muscles of his throat shift below the skin as he swallows.

“The company wasn’t quite so nice back then, though,” he says, and the words tumble from his mouth unbidden and fuelled by the alcohol in his system.

Graham raises an eyebrow at him over the rim of his glass, quiet and curious and perhaps a little bemused.

“Fuck, sorry. Please ignore me,” Richard says, and his face feels hot so he hides it in his palm. “I’m drunk.”

“Oh, really? I almost hadn’t noticed,” Graham deadpans, and when Richard peeks at him through his fingers he’s grinning.

“Yeah,” Richard says, awkwardly rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Graham snorts and swallows the last of his whiskey, then gently kicks Richard’s shin. “Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“Are you going to tuck me in?” Richard teases, ducking his head to hide his smile.

Graham steps closer and straight into his personal space, one hand coming up to squeeze the back of his neck firmly enough to make Richard’s breath hitch. “Don’t push your luck, lad.”

He swallows hard, throat suddenly dry, and someone must have switched off his brain-to-mouth filter or perhaps, with the movie made and the premiere over, he’s run out of reasons to utilise it, because he finds himself saying, “Or what?”

Graham keeps looking at him, face impassive, and says nothing, calloused thumb rubbing the soft skin just behind Richard’s ear. He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, when Richard makes a small sound and angles his head into the touch, and rubs a bit more firmly.

Richard puts his hand on Graham’s hip, deliberately low enough that it’s no longer really a friendly gesture, and the delicious feeling of being trapped against the kitchen sink by just the presence of Graham’s body thrums through his veins to pool in his stomach. He shifts a little to accommodate the stiffening of his cock, tugging at Graham’s belt loops until he budges and lets Richard pull him in so their thighs touch.

Graham says, “You’re really, really drunk right now, aren’t you?”

Richard sputters indignantly, the moment irrevocably broken, but his somewhat slurred protests fall on deaf ears as Graham pats him on the back and manoeuvres them out of the kitchen and back into the living room. It takes them almost an hour, several more glasses of questionable punch that Richard generally tries to pass off to Graham or subtly empty into conveniently located potted plants, and a rather awkward quest for their coats in the disaster area that is the hallway closet, before they’ve made it to the front door.

By the time they’re outside they’re both staggering a little, and Richard spends the majority of the cab ride back to the hotel with his eyes closed and his temple pressed against the cold window. Until the driver takes a sharp left and he slides right across the seat and into Graham.

“You okay there?” he asks, and Richard vaguely entertains the idea that maybe he isn’t the only one who’s had a little bit too much.

“Mmmm,” is his only response, hummed against the side of Graham’s neck and making his entire body tense in stark counterpoint to the sluggish, loose-limbed quality of Richard’s posture.

Graham puts an arm around him as they get out of the cab and make their unsteady way through the lobby, and Richard can’t quite figure out which one of them it’s meant to keep from falling over. The slightly sloshed, comfortably warmed up feeling from earlier is completely gone, replaced by a strange numbness of the extremities and sharp desire pulsing down Richard’s spine. He knows he’s drunk and that his judgement is quite probably horrendously clouded just now, but once inside the elevator he kisses Graham anyway.

He’s pushed away almost immediately, and he moves back in just as quickly.

“Richard,” Graham says, grabbing his wrists when his hands begin to wander.

“Yes,” Richard says and presses a kiss to the side of Graham’s neck, then slides his tongue upwards over stubble just because he wants to know what it feels like.

“Jesus fuck,” Graham hisses, jerking away as the doors open. “What’s your room number?” Then, at the slow grin thrown his way, rolls his eyes and reaches up to pinch Richard’s ear. “So I can make sure you get there in one piece.”

“No idea,” Richard says truthfully, and then rolls his forehead against Graham’s shoulder as he has to fight down a wave of unwarranted laughter.

Graham sighs heavily. “Fantastic,” he mutters, and tugs Richard into the hallway.

It takes him a moment to realise he’s being taken to Graham’s own room and, leaning against the wall as Graham pats down his pockets for the key card, he says, “Does this mean I get to sleep in your bed, then?”

Graham opens the door and doesn’t quite manage to hide his exasperated smile, and he says, “I think I remember telling you not to push your luck.”

Richard chuckles and follows him inside, and he’s got Graham pressed against the nearest wall before he has time to react.

Graham tries to push him away, but Richard pushes right back until he relents with a grunt and a scowl.

“I really, really want to sleep with you,” Richard says, face hidden against the hollow of Graham’s throat. “Really, really.”

“You’re also really, really drunk,” he replies, and Richard feels like they’re going in circles.

“And you aren’t?” he asks, and then slides his hand down to squeeze the front of Graham’s trousers before he’s gotten an answer. It’s a move fuelled by a fair amount of liquid courage and eighteen months of frustrating curiosity and sheer, unadulterated _want,_ and it’s quite possibly a bit stupid.

Graham growls and flips them around, slams Richard against the door so hard the wood rattles and holds his head steady between his palms as he kisses him. It’s unexpected and uncoordinated, teeth knocking together and noses getting squished, and Richard moans into the overwhelming heat of it. Some decision seems to have been made that Richard isn’t privy to, but he’s not about to complain if it means Graham’s going to keep kissing him like he is.

Their hips bump and then grind with more purpose, both of them hard and a little desperate, and with the room spinning and their kisses sloppy and wet and exhilarating Richard almost feels like this can be as inconsequential as his adolescent fumbling from long ago. He gasps softly when Graham opens his trousers and without preamble pulls his cock out and starts stroking, and then groans as teeth are scraped over his exposed throat.

“Clothes off,” Graham says, then bites the corner of Richard’s jaw as though for good measure.

It goes surprisingly quickly from there; a handful of aggressive, needy kisses as they haphazardly strip each other and themselves, and by the time they’re naked they’ve managed to stumble to the bed. Richard is pushed down onto the mattress and flipped onto his stomach, and he moans when Graham’s hands pin him where he is. Sucking kisses are trailed down his back in random patterns, and he reaches behind himself to touch Graham only to have his wrist caught and pressed back against the bed.

There’s no height difference to speak of between them, and even though Graham outmatches him in physical strength Richard could still throw him off or at least Graham would let him. But Richard doesn’t struggle and he doesn’t try to throw Graham off, and his breath leaves him in a shaky sigh when he surrenders himself to the fact that he’s right where he wants to be. 

“Spread your legs,” Graham says as he produces a bottle of lube and a condom from the nightstand drawer, and his voice is lower and rougher than Richard is used to hearing it.

He complies and is rewarded with thumbs pushing his cheeks apart and a fingernail pressing into his perineum, and he moans more loudly than he meant to. The touch of tongue to his clenched hole isn’t something he anticipates and the slick heat of it makes him curse, hips jerking involuntarily and making Graham pull back.

“Okay?” he asks, low and like it really matters.

“Yeah,” Richard says, shifting restlessly and edging his thighs further apart, the sensation of stubble scraping against sensitive skin still lingering. “That was new, is all,” he mumbles, unable and unwilling to put the limited extent of his experience with men into words and embarrassed that he’s so easily thrown off kilter.

“Okay,” Graham says again, unconcerned, and swaps swirling tongue for lube-slicked fingers pressing inside.

Richard wants to say that he didn’t mean for him to stop but he doesn’t really have the words for that either, and when Graham starts to pump his fingers in and out most coherent thought goes out the window anyway. It’s quick and dirty, the fingering designed to stretch him far enough for Graham’s cock and nothing more, and any prostate stimulation is purely incidental. There’s something about knowing that it’s neither meant to get him off nor really done for his pleasure that tears a drawn-out groan from Richard’s throat, and his cock throbs against the duvet.

Graham pulls his fingers out and tugs him up onto his knees, his movements becoming hurried and impatient, and Richard braces himself on his elbows. A choked off noise escapes him as he’s breached, and the slide of Graham’s cock into him is unrelenting and too much and it burns and it’s perfect.

He isn’t given much time to accommodate the stretch and fullness before Graham’s pulling out and pushing back in again, and somehow that makes it better. The first proper thrust is hard and fast, and it startles something like a shout from Richard.

The pace Graham sets is brutal, knocking the headboard into the wall and making Richard’s arms give way beneath him, and the sounds he makes are surprisingly soft. His fingers dig into Richard’s hips, pulling him back into every thrust and onto his cock, and Richard bites the pillow in an attempt to muffle the sounds he’s incapable of keeping in. Graham’s thighs slap against the backs of his own and it’s rougher than he’s used to, the edge of pain slicing through the haze of the alcohol sharper than he normally likes, and he’s almost embarrassed about how much he gets off on it.

A hand lands on his ass, and Richard jumps as heat prickles over the slapped skin. His face is pushed more firmly into the pillow even as Graham’s other hand deals a few more blows to various spots on his upper thighs and ass, and his moans change in pitch. His cock twitches between his legs, pre-come bubbling up from the slit to drip onto the duvet they neglected to remove in their hurry, and he’s startled by how close he is already.

“Please,” he groans, voice muffled by spit-wet fabric, and Graham mercifully takes him in hand.

The almost painful friction of a calloused palm over the leaking head is all it takes, and Richard’s cock is pulsing in Graham’s tight grip as he wails his pleasure into the pillow. His orgasm is sudden and intense, and he can’t seem to stop coming as Graham keeps pounding into him and his prostate is nudged harshly. When it does stop Richard feels wrung-out and dizzy, the room spinning horribly fast and his chest burning as he pants, and Graham has to tighten his grip on him to keep him from crumpling completely.

He wants to clench his muscles and push back, but his body’s gone heavy and sluggish and won’t cooperate. Graham keeps fucking him for a few minutes more, until his thrusts turn short and frantic and he stiffens as he comes too with a ragged groan.

Richard collapses onto his front when Graham’s pulled out, barely managing to convince his limbs to work with him enough to slide under the blanket, and he wants nothing more than a big glass of ice cold water.

*

When he wakes up he’s still lying on his stomach and his head hurts, and the wallpaper confuses him for a moment because it’s blue and the one in his room is green. Then he shifts, which reveals several things at once: a heavy arm thrown across his waist, a painfully stretched and sore feeling in his ass and Graham snoring next to him.

_Oh. Right._

He carefully extracts himself from the one-armed embrace and pads into the bathroom to piss, and then drinks what feels like several gallons of water straight from the tap. A quick exploration with his fingers reveals nothing worse than stretched and swollen muscle, and he flushes a little as details from the night before come flooding back to him. He’s embarrassed to remember the sounds he made, the things he did, and how bloody _drunk_ he was.

He has half a mind to gather his clothes and sneak back to his own room now that he remembers where it is, but Graham’s still fast asleep and according to the clock on the nightstand he didn’t get more than a handful of hours himself.

“Everything alright?” he asks when Richard slides back into bed and tugs his arm back around himself, and his voice is sleep-rough and a little confused.

“Sore,” Richard grumbles half-heartedly, and it gets him a snort and a quick, sleepy backrub.

“Next time you can be on top,” Graham murmurs, and when Richard closes his eyes the room has almost stopped spinning.


End file.
